


I Don't Really Want to Talk

by MasterChiefFunkoPop



Series: Blood Brothers [1]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27563632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterChiefFunkoPop/pseuds/MasterChiefFunkoPop
Summary: The Arbiter has a better understanding of the Master Chief than some people who have known him for years.
Relationships: Cortana/John-117 | Master Chief, John-117 | Master Chief & Thel 'Vadam | The Arbiter
Series: Blood Brothers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014759
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	I Don't Really Want to Talk

**Author's Note:**

> So... I get it. This reads like John/Thel but that's really not what I was going for. There's some implied MC/C in there (because they're my otp and i love them) that will become much more blatant in future works, but I'll let the charbiter shippers enjoy this one too.

Master Chief Petty Officer John-117 was, as one of the other human soldiers had put it, a tough nut to crack. It didn’t translate to Sangheili, but to the Arbiter’s ears, the phrase was a perfect metaphor for the Spartan. He could honestly say he admired his combat prowess more than he admired that of many other Sangheili. However, as the journey to the Ark commenced through the slipspace portal at Voi, he became increasingly perplexed by his behavior. 

It didn’t take long for a disparity to appear. The humans, regardless of rank or station, joked, quipped, and playfully argued with each other. It didn’t take more than a few hours for their banter to spread to the Sangheili and Unggoy aboard. Their humor was truly infectious, even earning a chuckle from the Arbiter himself from time to time. The only one immune, it seemed, was the aforementioned Spartan. He assisted in getting things arranged for his human compatriots before disappearing.

No one but the Arbiter was especially concerned. He could take care of himself, that much was sure, and causing trouble wasn’t really his nature. He rarely started fights, but often finished them. The former supreme commander wasn’t exactly sure why he was concerned, either. There was no concrete cause. 

Nonetheless, with no duties to attend to, he wandered the sprawling halls of the Shadow of Intent before coming to a quiet hangar. Inside were a collection of Seraphs and Orbital Banshees, prepared for the inevitable battle with Truth’s forces. These were far from the Arbiter’s thoughts, however, because he noticed that the quiet of the room was tense, with the Unggoy crewmen huddled off to one side. A human marine and Sangheili Major played some card game from Earth while conversing in hushed tones, glancing over their respective shoulders at a green clad figure sitting on a stool at the far wall.

The Arbiter felt both his hearts break at the sight. Before him, armored, sat a man crippled by grief. His posture was awful, especially compared to how dynamic and efficient his fighting had been not six hours earlier. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, helmeted head staring down at the textured metal floor. A less observant man would say he was probably exhausted from the fighting and preparations. The Arbiter was not a less observant man. He could see his shoulders were tense despite their slumped position. His left hand was seized in a permanent fist, and his right oscillated between open and shut, open and shut. The Chief was in pain.

For the first time in a while, the Arbiter didn’t know what to do. Resolving after a while to keep an eye on the Spartan, he joined the nearby card game. His target didn’t move for a long time, only turning to stare out the window in the hangar door. Then, he didn’t move out of that position, until it was time for him to sleep, Commander’s orders.

The next day, no one could find the Master Chief once again. He had woken up early and vanished into the bowels of the ship. Fortunately, the Arbiter had a bit of an idea of where to find him.

When he arrived at the hangar, there was a marine asking question after question of the Spartan, each earning a curt, one to five word response. There was something slightly different about the room this time, too. The Chief had dragged a crate to his seat at the far wall, and his rifle lay half disassembled on top, complete with polish and a set of tools. An idea presented itself to the Arbiter, and he jogged off to find a Carbine.

A few minutes later the Sangheili returned, with no annoying marine in sight. He slung the rifle over his shoulder as he grabbed another stool, dragging it to where the gargantuan human sat, tinkering with his gun.

Sitting across from him, he unlimbered the Carbine and set it down on the makeshift table with an audible, “thunk.” This caused the Chief to look up at him from his work. The Arbiter gave an exaggerated, human-style shrug while he began to dismantle the weapon. The Spartan stared at him for a few seconds, judging behind his reflective visor. Neither warrior spoke. He returned to his rifle. The only sounds in the usually-vacant hangar were the “clink-clank” of metal parts being separated and put to the side.

At one point, the Master Chief took his polish in one hand and looked around for a rag. The Arbiter wordlessly offered his own, which the human accepted with a slow nod. Thanks. The elite inclined his head sideways briefly. You’re welcome.

They sat there, taking much more time than was necessary to clean and polish their firearms, for an hour. The weapons glittered under the fluorescent lighting. Setting the rifle down to lean against the crate, the Chief then placed his sidearm on the crate, intending to repeat the process. He looked up at the Arbiter. I’m gonna keep doing this for a while, he said, speaking no words. The elite placed his energy sword's hilt and its charger next to the pistol. I’ll stay. The human nodded at him again.

After another hour, the Arbiter stood and strode away, leaving his sword and Carbine behind. He returned ten minutes later with two MREs, one human and one Sangheili. The Chief’s stomach took the opportunity to rumble. The Arbiter took his seat and slid the food across the table, earning him another gracious nod. 

The seals of Chief’s helmet hissed as it was removed. His too-pale skin and glassy blue eyes contrasted harshly with the dark green armor. The dark rings under his eyes betrayed his sleeplessness the night before. As a matter of fact, the Arbiter’s instinct told him he hadn’t slept well for a week at least. They ate together in a somber quiet, the Sangheili removing his own helmet, not because he needed to, but because it was a sign of trust on Sanghelios. To remove one’s helmet was to say, “I trust you not to shoot me in the head while I am vulnerable.” Though, on the Sangheili ship, crewed by ex-Covenant, in the similarly ex-Covenant fleet, he could imagine the human before him felt much more vulnerable than he.

What had happened to the man who so boldly proclaimed the Prophet’s “big mistake,” in front of the Gravemind, no less? A rhetorical question, really. The Arbiter understood perfectly. The construct was the answer. He had heard their banter, knew of her sacrifice. When she was around, the Chief easily matched wits with the other humans. Was that his secret, then? Perhaps his perennial social skills came from her influence.

That said, the Arbiter understood, to an extent. He didn’t know what it was like to share a brain with someone else. What he did know was the total, all consuming pain that comes only with the loss of that which gives one’s life meaning. He had been stripped of his rank, his name, his identity, his personhood, his honor, and his armor all at once. Tortured and branded as a traitor and heretic for all to see, laid low before the nonexistent, or maybe uncaring, gods he once adored.

So when he entered the hangar and bore witness to the Master Chief’s oh-so-familiar sorrow, he had to step in. No one would suffer alone through the hell that came with the loss of life’s purpose. Not on his ship. Not when he could do something. But what could he do? Ask questions? Have the antisocial Spartan open up about his feelings? Not if he wanted to be shooed away like the annoying marine. So there he sat, and tinkered, and nodded, and ate, alongside his once-enemy.

They both knew that there was a good chance of recovering the construct, just as the Arbiter had recovered his command. They also both knew she was likely being tortured by the parasite, torn apart and stitched back up. Their HUDs had been picking up the fragments she jettisoned to protect herself from its onslaught for the better part of the last three days. Seeing her message before their departure must have been the tipping point for the Chief.

For the time remaining of their journey, the unlikely duo spent many hours in quiet, broken by the occasional sounds of activity and the rare verbal exchange. They played the card game the Arbiter had learned from the soldiers. They practiced reloading each other’s rifles. Sometimes, they sat in contemplative silence, watching slipspace out the window, crew members working, and often, each other.

On the estimated second to last day, the Arbiter found his human counterpart sitting at his usual spot, helmet off. He was staring at it, his face screwed into an expression halfway between frustration and sadness. He noticed the elite’s approach and glanced up at him, nodding curtly. The Arbiter returned the gesture and sat across from him with his datapad. He had started reading a human novel called Lord of the Rings and was quite fascinated by it. 

They sat there, quiet, as usual, for a few minutes before the Arbiter’s attention was called by the “click” of the data chip being ejected from the helmet. The Chief was holding it in one hand, clearly trying to hold in his emotion. He wrapped the chip in an oversized hand and closed his eyes tightly. He held the chip up to his forehead as if willing her to return before dropping his still-closed fist to the makeshift table.

The Arbiter gently reached out and placed his hand atop the Spartan’s, communicating as best he could, You’ll get her back. After a second, the human warrior opened his eyes, not quite as glassy for the first time in nearly two weeks. He met the elite’s gaze and offered a small smile. It was the first time the Arbiter had seen that expression from him. The Chief looked away, taking a breath. When he locked eyes with his counterpart again, he nodded. He'd get her back, and the Arbiter was invited along.

**Author's Note:**

> Does it count as a vent fic if I'm not actually upset? Like, I wrote this feeling just fine mentally but it's totally what happens to me when i get pissed off in public
> 
> Also i just feel like i should mention the file for this was sad_guy_chief_part_1.docx


End file.
